Waiting
by ChottoMatte
Summary: Demyx is a lonely bookstore clerk; Zexion is a published poet. When the two meet, what could possibly happen? Sexual tension and hijinks ensue! The start of my DeviantArt 100 Themes challenge. Theme 55 - Waiting. Zemyx.


A/N – Alright, it's been decided! I, your loveable authoress, will tackle: THE 100 THEMES CHALLENGE. Hey, they maybe not in order, and not very well written, and may be a little spaced-out, but the important thing is that I'M GONNA TRY.

So the full list of themes can be found usin' the link on my profile page (I'm using the first set) and I'll keep track on my page of which ones I have done so far, as well as couple and fandom the peoples are from. Acceptable? Good.

Well, here we go… I'll at least try and start out with the theme in mind, but if I toddle off in some completely random direction, it's not my fault.

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Theme 55: Waiting

{The Bookshop}

The wait was agonizing. Customers trailed in and out of the store at a snail's pace, peering at books before eventually meandering out again into the spacious halls of the mega mall. A few more interested patrons perused the shelves more thoughtfully, fingering the books' spines with discernment.

Demyx was bored out of his mind. The people flipping through the books barely paid attention to the college-age kid behind the counter, playing with a literature-themed set of fridge magnets for sale and staring blankly into the distance. He'd been stuck behind the dreaded display case for hours, but his shift was only half over.

Landing a job at this prestigious bookstore had been fortunate, of course, but it really wasn't up Demyx's alley. He was a rock-and-roll, stay out late partying all night kind of guy, not some timid clerk who loved shelving and dust.

But hey, the pay wasn't bad. The hours weren't normally too strenuous, aside from the odd double-shift weekend. He could easily fit in classes and music lessons between work and sleep, and the only sacrifice was the discomfort he suffered through for some 25 odd hours a week. Life was going pretty great.

Aside from the whole ultimate, unavoidable, plague-his-every-waking-moment sexual-tension thing.

You see – Demyx hadn't had a steady boyfriend in over three years. Sure, he had the normal one-night-stands and week long torrid affairs, but what the blonde musician truly lacked was the 'one true love' that filled the countless pages of the books he tended to.

Every time a half-decent looking man came to the counter to purchase something, Demyx turned his charm up to full power – dazzling smile, bright eyes, careful compliments – but none of his endeavors ever proved fruitful.

Sure, he got a few phone numbers. He'd call the guy up a few days later, go out on a date or two, but inevitably be tired of him within a few weeks. He longed for something steady, something more… 'real' than what he'd been suffering through in the last few years. He and his high school boyfriend had a messy breakup as soon as graduation rolled around, and Demyx had been unable to hold a decent man ever since.

So here he was, an incoming Junior at Radiant Garden University, lonely as an oyster. He believed himself to be decently attractive, if his string of past paramours was any indicator. It was just sheer misfortune that he'd been unable to find a mate. Honestly, he'd almost given up on searching – until, on this mundane day, an opportunity presented itself most unexpectedly.

The utterly boring shift with which this tale opened just happened to be Demyx's

first time working on a Saturday night at the store, the cleverly named 'Book's Cranny.'

He had consulted the store's calendar upon his arrival earlier in the day, and was a little surprised to see 'POTRY READING' in large, bold letters inside the day's tiny square. Evidently, the store's monthly poetry reading took place on the third Saturday of every month.

Demyx consulted his manager before she left, to inquire about any special preparations that may be needed for the incoming group. She was less than helpful. Namine, a diminutive woman of some twenty five years of age, merely told him, "Put out a few trays of cookies or something. They mainly fend for themselves."

She showed him the cabinet full of baked goods in the kitchen. "There's a coffee maker in the back, just get that set up before they get here." She smiled at him, and then continued, "Move the chairs in the back into a semicircle, too. Oh – and you'll have to stay late, close the store early, and make sure everything's cleaned and put back into its proper place before you leave. Have fun!" Her parting smile was a grinning smirk, clearly happy to have gotten out of taking care of the group again.

Demyx stared after her, flabbergasted. "Clean the – stay until – make a – WHAT?" But she had already skipped off, darting between mall-dwelling teenagers and stumbling old people with a deftness that left Demyx no chance to pursue her. He trudged back into the shop slowly, ignoring the line of waiting customers at the counter.

He eventually reached his station and began scanning books, not stopping until the line was gone and the store was empty. The blonde looked around for a moment, making sure he had no one to wait upon, before running to the back room, closing the flimsy door, and screaming until his eyes watered.

If this was the price he had to pay for such a normally easy job, then so be it. Demyx waited for a few more hours before shutting down, flipping the sign on the front door to 'Sorry, we're CLOSED' and settling back to wait for the poetry readers. Just before the first few patrons arrived, he remembered to set out the coffee machines and platters of snack foods.

They trickled in slowly, an eclectic-looking group carrying sketch pads, satchels, journals and laptops. Demyx helped them pull the chairs into their desired arrangement, and one by one they settled down, waiting. For what, Demyx had no idea – but it may have been the blue-haired man that stumbled in at the last moment, who they hailed with a rousing cheer.

The man blushed faintly, bowed in mock formality, and then took a seat in the center of the hemisphere. He stretched his legs in front of him, found a soft pillow on which to rest, and began, "Alright, folks! Are you ready to get started? For those of you who may not know me, my name is Zexion. I'm currently the president of this little poetry circle, and I welcome you tonight to our 17th monthly reading."

Demyx watched from his stool behind the counter, transfixed. The man – Zexion, was it? – seemed so at home here, though his face was still stained by a light pink blush. It was almost cute, the shy way in which he took control of the conversation and turned it from one subject to another with seemingly effortless grace. The group followed him without question.

After half an hour of watching them chat, Demyx was surprised at the seamless transition from coffee hour to poetry reading. A man with bright pink hair hopped up onto the stool positioned at the front of the gathering, holding in his hand a crumpled piece of paper, stained with ink.

Zexion stood. "Alright now, hush, hush – If you could all listen, we'd like to begin reading now." He turned to the man on the stool. "If you could give us your name, and the name of the poem you'll be reading?"

The pink-haired man nodded, before replying quietly, "My name is Marluxia, and I'll be reading a poem I wrote just this morning, called 'Sanguinaria.'" Demyx listened intently as the man read,

"How a garden insists

its seeds grow from

memory, hollows

open the body, releases

a vowel. Once in me like

red pearls the sound

of grief and love spilled

from its root. I was not

stranded. I marked

each o with a scar."

The blonde worker jumped in shock as the room erupted with the sound of fingers snapping. He looked around curiously, before shrugging and making his way over to the group. Grabbing a mug full of steaming coffee and a tiny plate laden with cookies, he sat down on the floor next to a few people.

They regarded him curiously for a moment, before turning their attention back to Zexion at the head of the room. Demyx watched a blushing Marluxia make his way back to his seat, listening only faintly to the bluenette at the front.

One by one, every member of the group took their turn at the stool, reading a selected poem, whether it was their own work or a piece dear to their heart. Demyx admired a few, frowned at some, and after more than a few, scratched his head inquisitively.

The one thing that perplexed him the most was the snapping. Was that normal? Were these people just crazy, or was that the accepted 'poetry clap?' He knew golfers had their own kind of clap, and there was that STD called the clap – the blonde was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the elbow nudging him in the side for several seconds.

"Demyx? Hello? Demyx? That is your name, right?" Zexion was calling his name from the front of the room, and the poets around him were jostling him in an attempt to make him respond. The blonde blushed and yelped, standing up quickly.

"Uh, yeah?" Demyx mentally smacked himself. 'Cool move, idiot. Say the lamest thing in the world to the cutest poet you've ever seen.' He paused and cleared his throat. "Yes? What can I help you with?"

Zexion chuckled. "Well, I figured you've been listening to our other members reading long enough you'd be willing to share something of your own." He smiled warmly at a flabbergasted Demyx.

The blonde flushed red. "I uh – I mean, I'm just a clerk and I – You didn't really think – I mean…" He trailed off, his blush deepening to a rose red. Group members began tittering behind their hands, until all Demyx could hear was a wave of snickers, all he could see was a sea of grins. He began to sweat, rubbing his nervous-damp palms against the smooth fabric of his pants.

Zexion grimaced, "Alright, alright, guys," he crossed his arms, "he doesn't have to read if he doesn't want to." Demyx relaxed visibly, before reclaiming his seat on the floor. "How about instead, I read to you?"

The room erupted in cheers. A woman on the floor next to Demyx leaned over and whispered behind her, confidentially, "This is a big thing. Zexion is a published author; he doesn't like sharing his work because this is supposed to be 'amateur hour.' You should feel honored." She nodded conspiratorially.

Demyx smiled a little, his nervous tension fading. Zexion flipped through his satchel for a moment, before frowning. "Does anyone have a copy of one of my books with them? I don't have anything on me…" The room suddenly buzzed with the sound of poets flipping through backpacks, purses, and papers, before all eventually shrugging.

The bluenette at the head of the group shrugged. "I guess I could just do it next month…" He paused for a moment, and his face lit up. "Wait! Guess where we are, guys?" They looked around for a moment, before beginning to laugh again. One of them ran off into the stacks for a moment, before returning shortly with a whole armful of books.

The man – it was the first poet to read that night, the one named Marluxia – placed the pile of pages at Zexion's feet. "I brought them all – I didn't know what you wanted." The bluenette took a moment to shuffle through the stack before choosing one from near the bottom of the pile.

The group settled back down into their positions on the floor, waiting with baited breath for the bluenette to begin. Zexion flipped through a few pages, discarding this poem and that with a frown and a flick of the fingers, until he settled on a final work.

Clearing his throat, he read, "This is an eight-part poem titled 'Red-Legged Kittiwake. I'll read just the a few in random order for you." He continued, in a voice so soft it could barely be heard at first,

"Silver bones of the wrist

in their riggings rotate.

Pulp of the madder-root

shocked in white alum then soaked

through wool for the waistcoat.

The frigate back the gray rime

cuts through the ice-skirt

pursuing such things

to the knit of the nest.

The kelp closes up

where the bird has just been."

The room again erupted in a tide of snaps and cheers. Zexion blushed, before closing the book and resting it on his lap. "Thank you, thank you very much." He glanced at the clock on the far wall, before jumping in shock. "Oh my! It's gotten late, group! I suggest we adjourn until next month."

The gathered hoard collected their individual belongings and exited the bookstore much more quickly than they had entered. Zexion stayed until the last poet exited, helping Demyx and the stragglers pull the chairs and tables back into their proper positions. When it was only Demyx and Zexion left in the quiet, clean store, they flopped onto the comfortable couch and heaved a sigh of relief.

Demyx kept his eyes tightly shut for a few moments, until a polite cough from his right drew his attention. He sat up slowly, enjoying the sensation of his body slipping softly into the crevices of the plush couch. "Uh… hey. I don't think we ever got formally introduced – my name's Demyx." He held out his hand for Zexion to shake.

The bluenette smiled, and took the proffered hand. "I'm Zexion. So, you work here?" He held Demyx's hand just a fraction longer than was strictly necessary, and a sneaking blush crept over the blonde's cheeks.

"Uh, y-yeah. For a few weeks now." He shrugged, reclaiming his hand and using is to smooth down his rowdy hair. "It's not half bad – the hours are decent and all, you know…" He trailed off, and they lapsed into silence. His hand flopped down onto the comfortable couch's regrettably hideous covering, and there encountered another's.

Their hands touched for only a second, but Zexion snatched his away within moments, as if burned. He cradled it in his lap, blushing. "I guess I should get going, then…" He moved to stand, and then gestured at the pile of his books still lying on the floor. "Would you like help re-shelving those? We didn't mean to cause any trouble for you."

Demyx jumped to his feet. "Oh – no, no, I'll be fine. I was just wondering, uh…" He shoved his hands into his back pockets and shuffled nervously from foot to foot before mumbling out, "Could I, uh, have your number?"

Zexion turned red. "Oh! Uh, sure, I guess – I mean, I really don't mind, I'd like that, you know, to hear from you –" He clapped a hand over his mouth before his lips could betray him further. Demyx grinned and pulled a sharpie out of his pocket, handing it to Zexion and presenting the bluenette with his bare arm.

Zexion, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration, quickly scrawled his number in black marker on tanned skin. Handing back the marker, the bluenette proffered his own arm and they repeated the process.

When they were both sufficiently marked and sufficiently embarrassed, the two could barely speak. They finished cleaning up in silence, straightening minutely out-of-place chairs and carpets. They carried the stack of Zexion's books to the front counter, careful not to bump arms as they carted literature. With a last, flirtatious parting glance, Zexion left the store with a promise to call the next day.

Demyx watched as he exited, a feeling of giddy contentment settling deep beneath his breastbone. As soon as Zexion was out of eyesight, he began scanning each of the blunette's books into the cash register. Pulling out his wallet, he stuffed the required amount of legal tender into the drawer and bagged up his purchases.

The blonde packaged his purchases in a large canvas tote from beneath the counter, before carting them to the front door and flipping off the lights. With one long, last glance to assure that all was well in Book's Cranny, he closed the glass-paneled door gently, locked it, and went on his merry way.

As he exited the deserted mall and walked to his car, he reflected aloud, "Maybe waiting isn't so bad."

-Fin-

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A/N – So, how was my triumphant return? Sorry, no sex yet…. I'll get around to it. Read and review, please!

Until next time, this is your hostess, ChottoMatte, signing off!


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